


The Half-Empty House

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the canon stories "The Final Problem" and "The Empty House." This is what happens when I re-read favorite Sherlock Holmes stories while on vacation at the beach. And it's kidfic. I know, I know - but it really does make sense here, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Half-Empty House

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to beta queerlyobscure for catching my missing words and inconsistencies, offering helpful advice and ideas, and reassuring me about the parts that made me insecure. Your help is much appreciated. Thanks also to katead, benevolent goddess of all things historical, for getting just as interested as I was in Watson’s underwear.

The kiss was perfect. Holmes’ heart pounding, his head spinning. Watson’s warm, soft lips against his, parting. Their tongues sliding together. Watson clinging to him as if drowning. But Watson forced a hand between them and pushed Holmes away.

“I can’t,” Watson gasped.

They stood a few feet apart, panting and glaring at one another.

“Interesting that you’ve said that you can’t,” Holmes said. “Not that you don’t want to.”

“I’m a married man,” Watson whispered.

“Yes,” Holmes hissed. “I could hardly forget that.”

“And…” Watson hesitated. “I’m soon to be a father.”

Holmes had already known that Watson would never abandon his wife—had always known it, even if he was able to indulge himself by ignoring the fact from time to time, but how much more impossible if there was a child?

After that there was nothing else to do but end it all. Their hike to the falls the next morning provided the opportunity as neatly as if he had planned it himself. He knew that the message summoning Watson back to the hotel was a ruse and was certain if he were alone Moriarty would confront him. He welcomed it, sending Watson away with unfeigned cheerfulness. He felt gratified imagining Watson’s sorrow and guilt when he discovered what had happened.

Then, at the last moment, reflexively, he saved himself. He stood looking down, the rushing water roaring in his ears, cursing his instinctual self-preservation until it occurred to him he could still escape. He could end his life as he knew it, with the advantage of being able to witness firsthand how distraught Watson became upon believing him dead. It was not that he wished to punish Watson, not precisely, but he hoped it might ease his pain somewhat to have an idea of the true depth of Watson’s feelings for him.

It was only a moment after Watson’s panicked return that Holmes began to regret his decision. The agonized expression on Watson’s face was more than Holmes could bear. Several times he began to climb down from the cliff, and once he called out, but the waters were too loud and camouflaged his voice. Holmes knew there was no true home for him in London any longer. It would be better for him to disappear.

*****

_FIVE YEARS LATER_

_My dear brother,_

_I regret that I write only to convey sad news. Tragedy has befallen your old friend Watson. His wife has died, and her newborn child is not long for this world. As he was always a loyal companion and partner to you, I thought I ought to bestir myself and so attended the funeral. Watson was everything that is polite and respectable, but he is deeply affected. You wrote that you were considering a return, and I thought this information might influence you. Write me immediately should you wish to arrange for passage home - M_

*****

Holmes had been to Watson’s home only a very few times. He had found it simply too difficult to remember not to scowl at Watson’s bride. It had also bothered him that he could not determine the extent to which Watson understood the extreme awkwardness of their rare meetings.

How odd to be walking toward the little house before he even went to his own lodgings on Baker Street. It had been almost five years since he had last seen Watson, although when he had slipped back into London to effect the arrest of Moriarty’s last collaborator he had spent a day in disguise, prowling the streets of Kensington in hopes of catching a glimpse of the good doctor on his rounds.

Waiting in Watson’s sitting room was nerve-wracking. Holmes had given a false name to the maid who answered the door, so Watson would have no idea who had come to call. As he waited, Holmes found himself worrying over his reception. He rather expected Watson to give him a good solid punch.

Holmes studied his surroundings. It was a comfortable room, obviously arranged for the Watsons’ personal use rather than fashionable entertaining. There were two armchairs by the fireplace, and the table next to Mary’s chair still bore her sewing basket and a novel with a ribbon marking a page halfway through.

Holmes was distracted from his examination of the room by a strange shuffling noise coming from under a large round table on one side of the room. Quietly he rose and walked across the carpet. Lifting the tablecloth, he peered underneath. A small boy looked up in surprise, his blue eyes huge.

_Good God_ , thought Holmes. _This is Watson’s son_. Holmes had not given Watson’s first child a moment’s thought.

“What are you doing under there?” Holmes asked, remembering to speak softly.

The boy’s eyes grew impossibly larger. “Hiding,” he said in a small voice.

Not knowing how else to respond, Holmes only nodded. Then it occurred to him that this child could be a valuable ally. It would be prudent to befriend him.

“May I hide with you?”

The boy considered Holmes’ request very seriously, then nodded and pulled his knees to his chest to make room. Holmes crawled under the table, sitting cross-legged so that he would be covered by the tablecloth.

Holmes thought it best to whisper. “Why are we hiding?”

The child shrugged just as Holmes heard the door to the room open.

“Johnny?”

It was Watson. To hear his voice after so long made Holmes’ breath catch.

“John? Are you in here?”

Holmes looked at the boy, who held a finger to his lips. Holmes nodded, but he could not understand why the boy would want to hide—it was impossible to imagine Watson being anything but a gentle, patient father.

The tablecloth was pulled up, and Holmes finally saw Watson. He looked exhausted, his eyes deeply shadowed, but otherwise he was unchanged. Holmes wished he could freeze the moment so that he could absorb Watson’s presence.

“There you are, John,” Watson said. “What are you—?”

Watson’s eyes fixed on Holmes’ face, and his reaction was quite extraordinary. His mouth gaped open, and his face went pale. He had crouched down to look under the table, and now he fell back and sat down hard on the rug. He was blinking very rapidly and did not seem to be breathing. For a moment Holmes feared he might faint, but he recovered with a few deep breaths as Holmes and Johnny pulled themselves from under the table.

“Father?”

Watson shook his head, staring. He reached out and wrapped his hand around Holmes’ arm as if to reassure himself that his eyes were not playing tricks.

“What’s the matter?” the boy asked.

Watson tore his eyes away from Holmes and let go of his arm. His hands clenched into fists, but when he looked at his son he forced his fingers to relax. “I’m very surprised,” he choked out. “I haven’t seen Mr. Holmes for a very long time.”

“Is he your friend?”

“He was once,” Watson answered.

The boy frowned. “But he isn’t any more?”

“Nevermind,” Watson said, much to Holmes’ disappointment. He would liked to have heard Watson’s answer.

“Come now,” Watson continued, getting to his feet. “It’s past your bedtime. Nanny is beside herself. You mustn’t hide from her.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

Watson touched the boy’s back in a gesture that was part affectionate pat, part gentle shove to start him moving. As Johnny walked slowly to the door of the sitting room, he turned to stare at Holmes.

“Goodnight, Mr…”

“Holmes,” Watson prompted.

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” Johnny said, with more confidence.

“Goodnight, Master Watson.”

Once the child had shut the door behind him, Watson’s brows lowered in a frown. Holmes thought that perhaps Watson would strike him after all.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said. “I owe you a thousand apologies.”

Watson fell into a chair.

Holmes felt compelled to fill the room with words. “I am sorry, Watson, but even with Moriarty gone my life was in danger, as was yours. It was necessary—”

“Holmes,” Watson said sternly. “I would like to hear your explanation, believe me, but not just now. I can’t—” His voice broke off.

“Of course.” Holmes started to sink onto the chair next to Watson’s, then realized it would be unwise to sit in Mary’s favourite seat. He crossed the rug and sat on the sofa.

The thin wail of an infant broke the silence that followed, surprising Holmes. His only thought had been of Watson, and Mycroft’s letter had led Holmes to believe the baby would not live. Watson dragged himself up out of his chair, his face a caricature of exhaustion and worry.

“Watson,” Holmes murmured. “How fares the child?”

Watson’s only response was to shake his head very slowly. He stepped toward the door.

“Have you called in another physician? Perhaps you should not be—”

Watson whirled around to glare at Holmes. “Of course I have!”

Swallowing hard, Holmes said, “My apologies. I spoke only out of concern for you.” 

Without another word, Watson left the room.

Holmes remained on the sofa and listened as the servants put themselves to bed. Watson must have stayed to tend to the baby, because he did not return. Holmes was forgotten. The house might as well have been empty.

*****

In the wee hours of the morning, Holmes started awake when Watson collapsed on the sofa next to him. He heard a long, weary sigh and knew that Watson had not slept.

When Watson spoke, Holmes had to strain to hear him. “It’s very bad, Holmes,” he said. “Very bad.”

The roughness of Watson’s voice brought tears to Holmes’ eyes.

“I needed to get out,” Watson continued. “The nanny thinks I should not be in the room, but I feel as if I have to do _something_. But it’s impossible to just sit and watch as—” He cut himself off and put one hand over his eyes. “Something was wrong from the very beginning. I knew Mary was ill, though she wouldn’t let on how much. She didn’t want to upset me. She wanted another child so badly—wanted Johnny to have a brother. But as the months wore on she grew more and more frail, just fading away.”

Watson let his hand drop, and his head fell back until he was staring at the ceiling. “It wasn’t like when Johnny was born. Then she was so strong and energetic. I’d heard ladies talk about expectant mothers having a kind of glow about them and thought it was rubbish, but it was really true. She was so beautiful. And so happy.”

Hearing this was like having Watson’s heart sliced open to read like book. He had loved his wife—truly loved her. Now he mourned her earnestly, and Holmes could feel only jealousy. He was disgusted with himself. Reaching out slowly, Holmes rested his hand on Watson’s. Watson sat up straight. He looked at Holmes as if surprised to find him still there.

*****

The day of the infant’s funeral was perversely bright and sunny. Watson allowed only Holmes and Mary’s parents to attend and stood silent and stone-faced throughout the brief service. Holmes surreptitiously watched the Morstans, a quiet, respectable couple, as they clung to one another’s hands. Mary’s grave, the earth still raw, was impossible to ignore.

Longing to offer Watson some comfort, Holmes stepped near. Watson did not turn his head, but when Holmes pressed against his arm, he leaned ever so slightly closer, and when they turned away from the gravesite, he let Holmes take his arm.

At the waiting carriage, Mr. Morstan shook Watson’s hand and apologized for leaving so abruptly. “She’s unwell,” he said. “She wanted to go home with you and see Johnny, but…” He shook his head, his worried eyes never leaving his wife’s face as she wept quietly. “I’m going to send for the doctor. Ask him to give her something to let her sleep.”

Watson kissed his mother-in-law’s cheek, and then he and Mr. Morstan half-lifted her into the carriage. After one last handshake, Mr. Morstan climbed up, and they were away. Holmes felt like an intruder being witness to such a private family moment.

Taking Watson’s arm again, Holmes led him out of the cemetery onto the street to find a cab. Watson fell into the seat and when Holmes sat down leaned against him heavily, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

*****

A week later Holmes called at Watson’s house just as father and son were sitting down to their evening meal. He had forced himself to stay away, by no means certain that his presence provided any consolation, but he felt he must see Watson again. When Holmes entered the sitting room, Watson let out a small sigh, but his expression gave Holmes no clue as to whether he was annoyed or pleased by the visit.

“You’re welcome to join us, of course,” Watson said, ever polite. “It’s nothing fancy, but there’s plenty. You’ll have to excuse us. Ever since—” Watson’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat, casting a concerned glance toward his son. “Our habits have become somewhat irregular. It seems silly for me to eat in the dining room on my own, and Johnny and I have come to enjoy our little suppers here together.”

Watson pulled another chair up to the table, the same table under which Holmes had hidden when he first arrived, and the three of them ate without conversation. Holmes watched the boy, who in turn peeked nervously at his father. From the child’s anxious manner, Holmes concluded that Watson was not usually so silent and forbidding.

Johnny’s uneasiness made him clumsy, and he spilled his glass of milk, soaking the tablecloth and flooding his own plate as well as several of the serving dishes. Watson looked up, frowning, and his mouth opened. He seemed about to scold the boy but caught himself, stood, and left the room.

Johnny looked at Holmes, tears welling up in his eyes. “Father’s angry.”

“Yes,” Holmes answered before he even thought. “But he isn’t angry with you.”

The boy frowned, obviously skeptical, but the tears were disappearing. “Then why?”

Holmes decided the truth was necessary. “He’s angry that your mother died.”

This seemed to satisfy, and Holmes wondered if it was always so easy to speak to middle class children. He had always imagined them to be such an alien breed compared with the rough little street arabs to whom he was accustomed, but simple, honest sentences seemed to serve very well.

“And the baby?” Johnny asked.

“Yes,” Holmes said, although he had seen Watson’s face as they rode away from the graveyard after the burial. There had been grief written there, of course, but also profound relief. Holmes knew Watson well enough to understand that crippling guilt would accompany that relief, and his heart ached to think of Watson carrying that burden.

Johnny was still staring at Holmes, waiting.

“Are you finished with your supper?” Holmes asked. “Perhaps I could tell you a story.”

*****

When Holmes next visited, it took a long time before the maid answered the door. She invited him in, and he noticed how very quiet it was. Watson was out seeing patients. Holmes would have left, but Johnny heard him at the door and ran down the stairs into the entry. He seemed the only bit of life in the house. His nanny followed, and when she saw the boy’s excitement gave permission for him to lead Holmes into the sitting room. By the time Watson came home, Johnny and Holmes were deep in conversation.

Johnny eyes were wide and shining. “Is it true you were shot, Father?”

“Holmes, what have you been telling him?” Watson’s tone was gruff, but he could not compl¬etely hide his smile. Holmes noticed that the lines that formed next to his eyes when he smiled had deepened and extended. He must have smiled often in the last five years, before his more recent troubles.

“I was telling him your war stories,” Holmes explained, pulling his eyes away from Watson’s handsome face. “And relating some of our shared adventures.”

“He’s not yet five years old, Holmes,” Watson said. He sounded both exasperated and pleased. “You can’t talk of such things.”

Holmes made a face. Watson fretted too much. “Only our tamer cases, I assure you. He simply wants to hear what a hero you are. Perhaps he’ll follow in your footsteps and become a doctor. He wants to hear about our various injuries in rather morbid detail.”

“So is it true?” the boy repeated. “Were you shot?”

“Yes, Johnny. While I was serving in Afghanistan.”

“What was it like?”

“It hurt,” Watson said with a wry smile. “It hurt terribly.”

The boy pulled his shoulders up in disgusted pleasure at the idea.

“I spoke to Nanny as I came in,” Watson said. “She’s drawing your bath. You must go upstairs now.”

Holmes suppressed a smile at the scowl that took over Johnny’s face.

“You have my every sympathy,” Holmes said. “A nanny is the bane of a man’s existence.”

Holmes doubted that the child completely understood his words, but he certainly understood the tone. He grinned and, after pausing to receive a rather formal kiss on top of the head from Watson, ran from the room.

Watson stared at Holmes, his expression unreadable. “That’s the first natural smile I’ve seen on his face since his mother died.”

Holmes did not answer. With the boy gone, the atmosphere was strained—they did not know how to be alone together. They sat in awkward silence until Watson offered brandy. The invitation was polite but insincere, so Holmes refused and said goodnight.

*****

_FOUR MONTHS LATER_

Holmes left Lestrade at the Yard and began the lonely walk home just as shopkeepers were opening their doors and sweeping their steps. Passing a broad toy shop window, Holmes spied a collection of carved wooden animals, including a small painted bulldog that made Holmes remember Gladstone with a pang. On an impulse, he bought the toy.

Since coming home, Holmes had hovered at the edge of Watson’s sadly reduced household, limiting himself to weekly visits. Two days remained before he could allow himself to call again, so he arranged for the toy to be delivered. For the rest of the day, Holmes felt an almost guilty pleasure every time he thought of the squat little wooden figure on its way to Watson’s house.

*****

The following day Holmes’ thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Mrs. Hudson fussing happily in the entry. His curiosity got the better of him, and he tiptoed out of the sitting room and down to the landing so that he could see who had come to the door. The Watsons, father and son, stood at the foot of the steps.

Watson immediately noticed him and looked up to smile. When Holmes had first returned to London, there had been a nostalgic rush of emotion that flooded through him every time he saw Watson’s face. He had thought that he had overcome the problem, but it was much more difficult here, in the home they used to share. Stifling the feeling, Holmes nodded a greeting.

“Oh, Doctor, he’s the spitting image of you,” Mrs. Hudson cooed. Johnny looked at his father, unsure how to behave, and caught sight of Holmes on the landing.

“Mr. Holmes!” He ran up the stairs and stopped in front of Holmes, his feet dancing slightly in his excitement. “We’re here to see you.”

“Indeed?” Holmes said. “I’m so glad. Do come in.”

Bringing Johnny into the sitting room, Holmes could hear Mrs. Hudson quietly offering Watson her condolences as they climbed the stairs. It made Holmes want to cringe, but her sensible nature ensured that she did not belabor the point, and when they reached the threshold, Watson was still smiling. Holmes sat in his chair, watching Johnny crane his neck to see all of the curiosities in the room.

“Johnny,” Watson said quietly, putting his hand on top of the boy’s head.

“Yes, Father?”

“Wasn’t there something you wanted to say to Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh, yes!” Johnny scurried over to stand in front of Holmes. “Thank you for my dog, Mr. Holmes. It was very kind of you to send it.”

“You’re very welcome, Master Watson,” Holmes said, amused at the formality of the little speech. Watson must have had him learn it by heart. Johnny came closer, resting one elbow on each of Holmes’ knees. Holmes could not remember exactly how they had become so comfortable with one another. Johnny continued, “I put him on the table by my bed when I went to sleep.”

Mrs. Hudson came into the room, and Holmes saw her eyes dart between Watson and himself.

She turned to Johnny. “I wonder if you would you help me for a moment?”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“I’ve just tried a new cake recipe, and I need someone to tell me whether it’s been a success.”

Johnny grinned and looked to his father. Watson nodded, and Mrs. Hudson took the boy by the hand and led him to the kitchen. Standing in the middle of the room once they were gone, Watson looked very uncomfortable.

“Do sit down, Watson. I wouldn’t think you’d stand on ceremony with me.”

Watson went to his old favorite armchair, but he perched on the edge of the seat. Finally he spoke. “Thank you for sending Johnny a present. He was very excited to receive a package in the post, and he carried that little dog around all day.”

“I’m pleased he likes it.”

“I tried to convince him to name it Gladstone, but he had other ideas.”

“What name did he choose?”

“Caesar. It’s the name of the dog who lives next door.”

“Ah.”

There was another awkward silence.

Watson cleared his throat. “I’m taking Johnny to the seaside.”

“Oh?”

“For his birthday next week. He’s never been.”

“Neither have I.”

Watson looked surprised.

“I’ve travelled over it, of course, but I’ve never visited the seaside for its own sake.”

Watson smiled, but it was clearly forced—he was anxious. “That works out nicely then. We’d like you to come with us.”

Holmes made a face, dismissing the invitation.

“No, please come,” Watson said. “It would be good for Johnny.”

“Good for Johnny?”

“Yes, things are so changed for him now,” Watson explained. “But when you’re with us… Well, instead of everything being different because he misses Mummy, it’s different because we have a guest. More interesting. He so looks forward to your visits.”

Holmes tried not to feel flattered by this. Any small boy will like an individual who pays him some attention.

Watson licked his lower lip nervously. “Please come,” he said in a low voice.

Finally he met Holmes’ eye, and his gaze was so intent, so earnest, that Holmes felt his heart start to race. He admonished himself. Watson was lonely and wanted help entertaining his young son. That was all there was to it.

As they stared at each other, Holmes heard small feet racing up the steps, and Johnny flew in the door, stopping just short of colliding with Watson’s chair. There was a smudge of white frosting on his cheek.

“Did you ask him?” The boy said, breathless.

“Yes, but—”

“Will he come?”

“Well…” Watson said, glancing at Holmes. “When I’m gone, no one will miss me. There so many doctors who can tend to my patients. But no one else can do what Mr. Holmes does, you see. No one can take his place. He must stay here.”

Johnny turned to Holmes, his little face so desolate that Holmes could not refuse.

“Watson, I don’t suppose there is a telegraph office near your hotel?” Holmes asked.

“I imagine there might be,” Watson answered, looking amused.

“Then I might be able to escape London for a day or two, as long as I can be reached should anything truly urgent arise.”

Two virtually identical Watson smiles were turned on Holmes. The effect was rather unnerving.

“You’ll come?” Johnny asked, apparently requiring a more definitive answer.

“Yes, my dear boy. I’ll come.”

Johnny let out a yell and began to jump about the room. Watson tried to quiet him but was still smiling. The mild reprimand only made the boy’s happy shouts ever so slightly less raucous. Holmes shook his head as if appalled by the noise, but Watson saw though him and grinned that much more widely.

*****

It was still dark when they met at the station to catch the first train. Johnny was beside himself with excitement. Having brought a newspaper with him, Watson began to read as soon as they had found their compartment, but Holmes found himself watching Johnny. It had never occurred to Holmes that seeing a child experience the world would be so fascinating. Everything, from the conductor punching their tickets to the latch on the window, was new and interesting to the boy, and Holmes was entertained throughout the journey simply by observing him and answering his multitude of questions.

As soon as their baggage was in their rooms, Johnny asked to go down to the sea. Holmes had no desire to go in the water, but he went along and sat on the sand to watch as Johnny, his bare arms and legs looking very thin and pale, clung to Watson’s hand in the waves and ran splashing through the shallows.

After hours of play on the beach, Watson brought Johnny away from the surf. Holmes watched Watson approach, admiring the way the wet fabric of his bathing costume stuck to his strong, lean thighs.

“I think it’s time to find something to eat,” Watson said. He reached down to pull Holmes to his feet, and it seemed to Holmes that Watson’s hand lingered in his for a moment longer than necessary.

Once the two bathers had dressed, they found a stall selling fish and chips to provide their luncheon. Eating a meal out of a newspaper while sitting on the sand was an amusing novelty for a boy celebrating his fifth birthday, and then they strolled through a busy green park. Holmes had eyes only for Watson, who was looking completely contented, his nose and cheeks pink from being in the sun all morning, and so almost stepped on Johnny’s heels when he froze in the middle of the path.

It was immediately obvious what had stopped the boy in his tracks: ahead was an ornate carousel surrounded by crowds of children and their families. Johnny was dumbfounded by its gaudy beauty, and Watson immediately agreed to purchase tickets.

“I want Mr. Holmes to come too!”

“Perhaps Mr. Holmes would rather—”

“Nonsense, Watson. I’d love to join you. Amazing the uses to which they’ll put a steam engine, is it not?”

Choosing a mount on this particular carousel was difficult for Johnny, because rather than having to decide only between horses of different colors with various types of painted tack, he was presented with many different species. There were a few horses here and there, but most of the animals on the carousel were more unusual, including a lion, a dog, an ostrich, and even a dragon.

Johnny finally decided on a frog with a dapper waistcoat, and he assigned his father to the animal directly to his right, which happened to be a rooster. Holmes smirked at Watson until he saw the mount Johnny picked for him: a pig carrying some kind of greenery in its mouth, saddled just like the horses.

“A pig?” Holmes said in disbelief, but he climbed on without complaint.

Holmes was immediately behind Johnny, so he was able to watch the boy fidget on his seat as he waited for the ride to begin. He turned around to wave at Holmes, and Watson grabbed his arm.

“Hold on with both hands,” Watson instructed, and it was wise advice. When the carousel started turning, Holmes was surprised at its speed. The rapid rate at which it turned, combined with the vertical motion of each animal, gave the impression that they really were galloping along in a strange, dreamlike lope.

Johnny turned again to look back, this time remembering not to let go of the pole in front of him. When he saw Holmes, he giggled. “Father! Look at Mr. Holmes!”

Watson turned to look and gave a snort of laughter. Then he flashed a brilliant, heart-stopping smile in Holmes’ direction. Holmes did not know what they found so amusing until he noticed how the others were sitting. Johnny was so excited he could not keep still in his seat, and Watson was relaxed, turned slightly sideways to watch his son. Holmes realized that he himself was sitting bolt upright, as prim and proper as a schoolmarm, and he was not smiling, although he was enjoying himself. Holmes lifted his head even higher, made his expression that much more serious, trying to make them laugh again.

After the carousel ride, their progress was constantly impeded by various stalls selling food and sweets and the queues in front of them.

“Buy me some!” Johnny shouted when he saw a man selling candy floss.

“John,” Watson scolded. “Your manners.”

“May I have some please? It _is_ my birthday.”

Before Watson could even answer, Johnny was distracted by another vendor with candy.

“One treat,” Watson said decidedly. “You may have _one_.”

Johnny insisted on walking the entire path to scout out all of the possible choices before he settled on a toffee apple. Watson found an unoccupied bench, and Holmes and Johnny waited there until he returned with two of the sticky treats.

“Where’s Mr. Holmes’ apple?” Johnny asked.

“He’s going to share mine,” Watson explained. He took a healthy bite from the apple in his right hand and then presented it to Holmes.

Watching Johnny attempt to open his mouth widely enough to sink his teeth into his treat, Holmes almost forgot about his own. When he finally brought it to his lips he was suddenly acutely aware that he was placing his mouth where Watson’s had been just a few moments before.

Watson reached back without looking at Holmes to take their toffee apple. After another bite so large that his cheek bulged out while he chewed, he gave it back to Holmes with a small, distracted smile and turned back to Johnny.

With the next bite, Holmes could not stop thinking about Watson’s mouth, Watson’s lips. He brought the apple to his mouth again and felt his cock twitch. It was ridiculous—Watson certainly got no erotic charge from it, but then his attention was occupied trying to prevent bits of toffee that fell off Johnny’s apple from adhering to his trousers.

Holmes allowed himself no more. Watson knew well that he had no real fondness for sweets—that was most likely why he had not purchased a third apple—so Holmes did not feel the need to explain. However, even watching Watson as he finished off every last bite was not without its hazards: when Watson put one fingertip into his mouth to rid it of stickiness, Holmes had to look away.

The sun began to set as they made their way back toward their hotel. Johnny was still energetic, despite the activity and excitement of the day, and he skipped ahead. Watson kept a sharp eye on the boy but hung back, pulling Holmes’ arm through his as they walked.

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, Watson put Johnny to bed, then sat with Holmes in the tiny adjoining sitting room. They lit a fire to keep away the evening chill, and Holmes smoked his pipe while Watson read a novel. It felt so much like home that Holmes had to excuse himself and retire to his room.

*****

“Can we go in the water, Father?”

“We haven’t brought our bathing costumes,” Watson answered.

After a hearty breakfast in their rooms, they had decided on exploring the shoreline and had walked far away from the crowds on the bathing beach near the hotel. Watson toted a small hamper that held their lunch.

“I don’t mind if my clothes get wet.”

Watson laughed. “You may not mind now, but you will when we start walking back and all that wet cloth starts to chafe.”

Johnny pouted for a moment, but he did not give up completely. “Can’t I take them off? There’s no one here.”

Watson raised his eyebrows. “Why, you little heathen.”

“What’s a heathen?”

“Nevermind,” Watson said, kneeling on the sand and putting his arm around Johnny’s shoulders. He looked up at Holmes. “I don’t suppose it would offend Mr. Holmes’ sensibilities if you aren’t properly dressed.”

Johnny began pulling off his shoes and socks before Watson had finished his sentence. In moments he was naked and running toward the waves.

“Wait!” Watson called. “You can’t go on your own.”

Holmes was mildly scandalized when Watson started undoing his own buttons. Was Watson truly intending to bathe nude barely a mile from a crowded resort? Not knowing where to look, Holmes watched a gull walking over the sand, but out of the corner of his eye he could still glimpse Watson’s movements as he undressed.

“You’re not coming?” Watson asked.

Holmes looked at Watson to decline and was thankful that Watson had at least left on his drawers. Still, the sight of that much of Watson’s bare skin was impossibly distracting. Holmes was relieved when Johnny returned to grab Watson’s hand and pull him to the water. It was easier with distance between them.

After splashing about for a while, Johnny knelt down at the edge of the surf and began to dig in the sand with his hands. Watson watched him for a few moments, then turned and strode up the beach to where Holmes was waiting.

“Why are you sitting here like an old woman? You must come in with us.”

When Holmes shook his head in refusal, Watson shook his own head even more vigorously, sending a spray of cold seawater from his wet hair all over Holmes. Holmes frowned, but he was pleased—it was almost as if Watson were flirting with him. He looked up, taking in Watson’s strong figure, then reminded himself that his glasses, although tinted, were not dark enough to completely hide his eyes. He averted his gaze from where the thin, wet cotton of Watson’s underclothing clung to the darkness at his crotch.

Watson sat on the sand next to Holmes. Beads of water ran off his shoulder and down his arm, and Holmes reached out to touch before he could stop himself. The water was cold, Watson’s skin cool, but under Holmes’ hand the flesh quickly warmed. Watson did not take his eyes off Johnny, always watching to make sure he was safe, but Holmes could see that his breathing quickened.

“Holmes,” Watson whispered.

It was impossible to tell whether that was a warning or permission. Holmes pulled his hand away.

“Johnny should sleep very soundly tonight,” Watson said. “What with all this exercise.”

Holmes was afraid to interpret this statement, and Watson did not speak again.

“All right,” Holmes blurted out. “I’ll have a bathe.”

Watson looked surprised. Holmes stood and began stripping off his clothing. Watson laughed, and Johnny looked up at the sound. When he saw Holmes thumbing off his braces, the boy cried out and jumped to his feet. He ran up the beach and grabbed Holmes’ arm, pulling at him before he was even half undressed.

“Wait! Wait, my boy,” Holmes said.

Johnny ran back to the water, and Holmes removed his trousers. Watson’s eyes swept over Holmes’ body, and Holmes felt it on his skin as if Watson had touched him. Then Watson gave Holmes a crooked grin, and they raced to the water’s edge. Johnny jumped around their legs in circles like an excited puppy until he spied crabs in the rocks and was off to try and trap one.

As the tide came in, the surf grew rougher. One particularly forceful wave almost knocked Holmes off his feet, and Watson grabbed his arm to steady him. Holmes was sure-footed—perhaps more so than Watson with his bad leg, in fact—but he would never again complain about having Watson look after him.

Watson shouted something, but Holmes could not hear him over the crash of the waves. Stepping closer, Watson spoke right into his ear. “We should go back. I can’t see Johnny very well.”

Holmes looked up at the beach and could see the boy’s head bobbing up from behind the rocks around the tidal pools. He nodded and had just lifted one foot to walk up to dry land when a large wall of water slapped into them. Watson put his arm around Holmes’ waist, and they did not fall over.

When the wave passed, Watson did not immediately release Holmes, whose back was pressed Watson’s chest. Watson’s skin was warm against his, and Holmes could not breathe. He placed his hand over Watson’s, pressing it against his belly.

“Oh,” Watson said in Holmes’ ear, and then he suddenly moved away. He tugged on Holmes’ hand, and when they reached the beach, Holmes could see that Watson was blushing. He would not look at Holmes, and he walked briskly toward the rocks where they had last seen Johnny, shouting something over his shoulder that was lost in the wind.

The hope that Holmes had attempted to keep in check threatened to overpower him.

It was well past noon before they dressed, spread a blanket in the shade of a large rock, and settled down for their picnic. After eating, Watson lay back and closed his eyes, and Johnny played in the sand, building castles with battlements of shells and pebbles. Holmes thought Watson had already drifted off when he reached over and rested one hand on Holmes’ thigh. While he napped, Holmes sat cross-legged, watching Johnny and the waves, and did not move, even when his feet lost all circulation, for fear of dislodging Watson’s hand.

*****

Watson ordered supper to be sent to their rooms once they had cleaned themselves up. Conscious of Johnny’s presence, Holmes tried not to stare at Watson, but he looked so handsome in the lamplight, his crisp, white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. Holmes need not have worried—the boy was so exhausted he was falling asleep in his chair. When it became clear that he was too tired to eat anything more, Watson lifted him up and carried him to his bed.

As soon as they were alone together, the atmosphere felt charged. Watson took a few half-hearted bites before pushing his plate away. He rose from the table and paced the floor for several minutes before he spoke.

“Holmes…”

Holmes felt his heart thumping in his chest.

“You know I’m not the sort of man who could…”

When Watson’s voice trailed off, Holmes’ heart stopped beating altogether.

“A long time ago I might have been able to…” Watson stopped his nervous pacing and stared at Holmes. “I’m too old to… I mean rather… Damn it all.”

_No_ , Holmes said to himself. _He cannot deny me again. Not now._

Watson’s laps of the carpet started up again. “I want to feel settled. I’m a father, and nothing is more important than that responsibility.”

_Now he’ll lower the guillotine_ , Holmes thought. _He’s justified it to himself. For Johnny’s sake, he will break my heart._

“Of course I want Johnny to know you as a dear family friend and a frequent visitor, but…”

Holmes rose, ready to leave the room. He hoped there was a late train back to London. Or perhaps he could simply throw himself into the sea.

Watson stepped close and grabbed Holmes’ arm. “He’s too young too understand. Or rather, he’s too young to understand that others will _not_ understand.”

“Watson,” Holmes began bitterly, “There’s no need to—”

His words were interrupted by Watson pulling him close and kissing him. Holmes was so surprised that it took him several moments to respond.

Holmes had thought that the kiss five years before had been wonderful, but he realized now that five years before Watson had been hesitant. Had he been guilty? Or merely inexperienced? Whatever the reason, Watson had been timid then, but this kiss was truly perfect—intent, passionate. Watson’s mouth gentle but insistent.

Watson suddenly pulled away. “It must be a secret. That’s what I mean to say. Johnny can’t know anything of this.”

Holmes nodded, feeling dazed. Watson kissed him again, this time parting Holmes’ lips with his tongue. One of Watson’s hands slid into Holmes’ hair as he stepped near again, pressing his body close. The movement bumped Holmes back into the supper table, and the lamp resting on it wobbled.

Watson pushed his hips into Holmes’, and it was with such force that it pushed the table out from behind them. Its far legs slipped off the rug and stuttered across the wood planks of the floor. Holmes was able to whirl around and catch the lamp before it fell, but the noise of the table had been so very loud that they both froze and looked at Johnny’s door fearfully. Watson held up one finger. He walked on silent feet and slowly turned the doorknob, peeked in at Johnny, and then closed the door again without a sound.

When he turned back to Holmes, his manner was more relaxed. Johnny must not have awakened. Watson took Holmes’ hand and pulled him to the other bedroom, shutting the door and locking it. Then he smiled at Holmes and put an arm around his waist. Holmes feared that the interruption would cool Watson’s passion, but his next kiss was greedy, and his fingers fumbled with the buttons of Holmes’ waistcoat.

Seeing Watson’s eagerness, Holmes grew a bit more bold. After letting his waistcoat fall off his shoulders onto the floor, he slid off Watson’s braces and made quick work of his shirt and vest. Watson gave a smile Holmes had never seen before, sly and mischievous, and Holmes marveled once again at how very handsome he was. 

He shoved Watson down to sit on the edge of the bed and bent to kiss him, working at the fastenings of his trousers. Watson gasped at Holmes’ first touch on his cock, then held his breath for a long time before letting it out in a quiet moan. Holmes stroked gently, watching as Watson’s eyelashes fell onto his sunburned cheeks. Watson tilted his face up, and Holmes kissed him almost reverently, so grateful to be allowed the privilege of touching Watson in this manner.

Having waited for so many years for what was finally being given to him, Holmes was afraid to give his desire free rein. He was more than content to go slowly, thinking he might have to coax Watson along, that he might be inhibited when it came to touching another man intimately. But he had underestimated dear Watson, as he often did. Bold and determined, Watson grabbed the waistband of Holmes’ trousers, pulling him closer, tearing at the buttons. Unable to breathe, Holmes felt his clothing being pushed aside. Then Watson’s hand was around Holmes’ cock, and he lost all awareness of anything else.

Watson’s fingers were warm and strong. His tongue teased Holmes’ mouth, and in moments, Holmes felt himself on the brink, pushing into Watson’s hand. The heat was rising as if from his very bones, and when Holmes came, Watson never stopped his strokes, pulling every last thread of sensation from his body until his knees began to shake.

For a split second, Holmes was embarrassed that he had been so very quick. That all thoughts of bringing Watson the pleasure he deserved had flown from his brain once he felt Watson’s touch. He chided himself and thought to apologize but then saw the expression on Watson’s face—he was aroused, overcome—and knew there was no need to speak. Instead Holmes kissed him, sliding his hand down to Watson’s cock. Watson groaned into Holmes’ mouth, then pulled away to gasp for air. Holmes continued his strokes, increasing the pace until Watson’s entire body tensed.

“My God, Holmes!” Watson whispered, and he came, gripping the edge of the mattress. He fell forward, exhausted, until his forehead rested on Holmes’ chest.

Holmes looked down at Watson’s hand on the bed and noticed that he was not wearing his wedding band. He had had it on earlier in the day—there was a small stripe of paler skin where it had been, and Holmes felt a surge of affection. The ring would not have bothered him in the slightest, but it had been thoughtful of Watson to remove it.

Holmes stood beside the bed, swaying on his trembling legs. Watson smiled up at him indulgently and brought him closer, removing what was left of his clothing and pulling him into the bed. Watson still wore his trousers. They felt rough against Holmes’ bare legs, and he tugged at them. Watson moved to yank them off, and then they were able to lie together with nothing between them.

Holmes listened to Watson’s breathing as he fell asleep but felt wide awake himself. Despite the evidence of every one of his senses, he was having difficulty believing that Watson was truly there in his arms. He was almost afraid to go to sleep. He stayed awake for hours, running his hand lightly over Watson’s body, cataloging every sensation.

*****

When dawn strained in through the draperies, Holmes roused himself and rubbed Watson’s shoulder. Watson had been adamant that he did not want Johnny to know about their sleeping arrangements, and Holmes would take no risks.

Watson woke slowly, but as soon as he opened his eyes he smiled. He moved closer for a kiss, then turned to look at the window.

“Oh, it’s early,” he groaned.

“I’m sorry, but I had no idea what time he would wake.”

“As tired as he was, I’d say he’ll sleep much later than this.” Watson yawned and rubbed his face. “But it’s better not to take chances.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in another hour.”

“No, no.” Watson slipped his arm around Holmes’ waist and pulled him closer with a contented sigh.

“Watson?”

“Mmm.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Have you ever needed my permission to ask a question?” Watson replied. “Or my permission for anything, for that matter? Is this something new? I rather like it.”

“I only wanted to ask when you knew,” Holmes said, ignoring the teasing. “Did you know how I felt when you lived at Baker Street?”

Watson was silent for a long time. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet. “I knew, but only in a vague sense.” He turned his face away. “I didn’t truly understand, and I didn’t want anything to change.”

Holmes nodded. The question had seemed terribly important before, but now that Watson was sharing his bed, it did not seem very significant.

“Now that things have changed, I can see it’s better this way.”

“Oh, I agree,” Holmes said, pressing his face into Watson’s neck.

“No, I meant…” Watson made a small sound, unwilling or unable to put his thoughts into words.

“You mean it’s better that we never progressed so far before?” Holmes said drily. “I understand. I always knew that it if you had submitted to my advances for a night, or a week, or a month, or even longer, there would have come a time when you would have left.”

“Then why did you kiss me that night?”

Holmes laughed. “I was fairly certain I was going to die, my dear Watson. Can you blame me for my one desperate attempt?”

Watson did not answer, but his arm tightened slightly around Holmes’ back. Thinking there was nothing more to be said, Holmes settled himself more comfortably, hoping to sleep now that he had done his duty in waking Watson.

“Do you still think that?”

“Hm?” Holmes murmured, already drowsy.

“Do you still think there will come a time when I’ll leave?” Watson said insistently. “Because you’re wrong.”

“Watson—” Holmes was taken aback by this sudden intensity. He had not meant to upset Watson. He had been speaking only of the past.

“You’re right, of course, that back then… well, I would have been too frightened, but now…” Watson turned to look at Holmes in the growing morning light. “When you were gone, and Mary was so ill, I was certain I would always be miserable. So now I wouldn’t throw away a chance to be happy. I won’t.”

Watson pulled Holmes close and kissed him fiercely. When they parted for breath, Holmes was fully aroused, and a pressure on his leg told him that Watson was as well.

“So you are finally mine?” Holmes said as he slid his hand down Watson’s body to touch his cock.

“Yes,” Watson gasped.

“Tell me.”

“I’m yours,” Watson whispered, pushing his hips into Holmes’ grasp. “Completely.”

Holmes stroked Watson slowly. A low sound came from deep in Watson’s chest, and he sat up, pushing Holmes back and climbing on top of him. He gazed at Holmes intently as their cocks slid together. The motion of Watson’s hips was maddening—it made Holmes want more. He wanted to feel Watson inside of him, filling him up, but knew neither of them could last long enough for that.

Watson’s movements grew more urgent, and Holmes forced his eyes to stay open, wanting to see Watson’s face when he came. The muscles of Watson’s back under Holmes’ hands tensed. Watson moaned—it was too loud, and his eyes widened, but he was too far gone to stop. A few more thrusts and Holmes felt a hot flood across his belly. The glide of it against his cock was exquisite, a wet, silken warmth added to the insistent pressure of Watson’s hips. Holmes came, biting his lip so as not to cry out.

Watson collapsed, falling to the side, his arm around Holmes. They lay still, panting. When their breathing had slowed, Watson sat up far enough to look at the clock on the side table, then fell back onto the mattress with a groan.

“I really must get up.”

Holmes only grunted in reply, wrapping his arms around Watson as if to keep him in the bed against his will. Watson laughed.

“It’s not as if I want to go.” He kissed Holmes. “Perhaps…”

“Mmm?”

“Johnny will be visiting his grandparents for a week at the end of the month. Perhaps I could come stay at Baker Street while he’s away.”

Holmes smiled against Watson’s shoulder. “You are brilliant, as always.”

Watson pulled himself away and got out of the bed. He leaned down for one more kiss. “Are you going back to sleep?”

“Very possibly.”

“Our train is at eleven,” Watson said as he bent to pick up his clothes.

“You’ll wake me?”

With a nod, Watson turned to leave the room. Holmes had a glimpse of him grinning like a boy, his clothes clutched to his chest, as he closed the door.

*****

Holmes looked at the clock on the mantel. Watson was late. Holmes wondered vaguely if he should ask for tea to be delayed, but he was absorbed in his notes again before he made up his mind.

“Mr. Holmes?” Johnny said. He was building a tower with some toy bricks that Watson had bought for him.

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

Holmes glanced again at the time before returning his attention to his papers. “Your father will be home shortly.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes?” Holmes was constantly surprised by the patience he had with Watson’s son. He would certainly not tolerate anyone else interrupting him so often.

“I think you should get a dog.”

Abandoning all hope of accomplishing anything of use, Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Whatever for?”

“I want a dog, and Father said I can’t, but if you had a dog, I could play with him any time I wanted.”

“If I had a dog he would live with me.”

Johnny looked puzzled. “But you live here.”

“No, I live on Baker Street.”

There was no answer, so Holmes picked up his pen.

“Do you mean with the lady with the cake?”

Holmes remembered Johnny jumping about the sitting room with a smudge of Mrs. Hudson’s icing on his face. “Yes.” “But you’re always here.”

“Am I?”

Johnny nodded. “Maybe if you went back there more, Father and I could visit you again and have more cake.”

“That could most likely be arranged.” 

“Or she could come here. Her cake was better than ours. Then you could live here too, and I could play with your dog.”

“I am not getting a dog,” Holmes said. He shuddered inwardly at the idea of Mrs. Hudson coming to Watson’s home. “And you and your father wouldn’t want all of my things cluttering up your nice house.”

“But you could put them in your room.”

“It’s not my room.”

“Then whose is it?”

“It’s a spare room for guests.”

Johnny made a face. “No one ever comes but you.”

Holmes had indeed come to think of that tiny corner bedroom as his own. He and Watson were very discreet, of course—it would not do for any of the servants to see Holmes slipping out of the good doctor’s bedroom in the middle of the night, but Holmes had plenty of practice sneaking about in the dark without being heard, and Watson had carefully oiled the door hinges.

Holmes heard the front door open, and Johnny ran into the entry to greet his father. Holmes gathered up his papers to make room on the table for the tea things. Johnny came back into the room in a rush. Watson followed at a more sedate pace and stood by Holmes’ chair.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” Watson said, resting his hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “You’ll stay tonight, won’t you?”

“I intended to return home. I have a client coming early in the morning.”

“But it was very cloudy this afternoon,” Watson said. He glanced at Johnny, who had gone back to his bricks, then raised one eyebrow. “You could get caught in the rain and soaked to the skin.”

It was an innocent enough remark, but Watson’s tone of voice, coupled with that suggestive movement of his eyebrow, made Holmes quickly reconsider his plan. “Well, if you insist…”

“I do,” Watson said.

The End


End file.
